


Infected

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:50:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: There was no way he could allow this continue, he decided. Clearly, Athos and Porthos were both mad, and not at all in their right minds. Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge prompt “Contagion".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge on ff.net for the prompt "Contagion". Thanks to AZGirl for proofreading; all remaining mistakes are mine.

The feeling of his heart racing was palpable, and d’Artagnan was certain that everyone else in the room must be deafened by the sound of it.

 

“Release him,” Athos’ even voice commanded, his manner reflecting every fibre of the nobleman he’d been groomed to become.

 

At the sound of his mentor’s order, d’Artagnan’s gaze flickered back to where Aramis was being held. The marksman was on his knees, and if not for the man holding him by his hair, the Gascon was certain his friend would have fallen over. The blow that had been delivered to Aramis’ head had been shocking in its intensity, the crack of it echoing above the din of the fighting, which had come to an abrupt end with the sound of a single pistol shot when the marksman’s captor had fired into the ceiling.

 

That shot had announced the shift in power that had occurred as soon as their brother had been taken. Now, the Musketeers dared not move against their two remaining opponents, lest the blade in the bandit’s hand shifted to slice at the tender skin covering Aramis’ throat. They were at an impasse.

 

Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos all stood at the ready, the two experienced soldiers both pointing their weapons at the bandit holding their friend hostage, while d’Artagnan held his blade against the only other attacker in the room, preventing him from doing anything more than tensely watching as things unfolded.

 

“I won’t ask again,” Athos’ measured tone informed their aggressor, his steely gaze pinned firmly on the man who held Aramis’ life in his hands.

 

The marksman’s face was pale and his half-lidded eyes were glazed, making d’Artagnan wonder if the man was truly aware of the perilousness of his current situation. For his part, the Gascon couldn’t possibly imagine anything more grave than to have one of their own wavering at the edge of life and death, the difference between the two measured by the thickness of the bandit’s blade.

 

“I say we just shoot ‘im,” Porthos interjected, his expression just as hard as Athos’ and just as unforgiving. There was no doubt in d’Artagnan’s mind that these men would dearly regret today’s actions; the only question being whether they would survive the encounter.

 

It was simple really. If the threat against Aramis was carried out, there would be nothing in Heaven or on Earth that could possibly save the two outlaws from following swiftly on the marksman’s heels. Porthos, especially, would make it his personal mission to ensure that the man who spilled his friend’s blood was dragged to Hell in the most painful way possible. On the other hand, if Aramis was released, d’Artagnan was certain that Athos would be guided by reason and justice, restraining their prisoners and carting them off to the Chatelet, where they would likely come to wish they’d been killed instead.

 

Athos’ quirked a questioning eyebrow at Porthos’ comment, countering it with one of his own. “Let’s not be too hasty, Porthos. After all, I’d like to believe these men are smart enough to know better than to threaten a Musketeer.” The look the former Comte gave the bandit suggested that it was very much in best interest to prove Athos’ statement correct.

 

“Maybe you should do as they say, Rene,” the other man spoke up, causing the bandit to glare in his comrade’s direction.

 

“Shut your mouth, Devore,” Rene spat back, quickly returning his attention back to his hostage as Aramis groaned, the marksman’s eyelids fluttering with the challenge of staying awake.

 

The left side of Aramis’ face was covered in red, the hit he’d taken to the temple splitting the skin and allowing the wound to bleed freely. d’Artagnan had felt panicked at the amount that had poured forth, until he remembered the marksman telling him how copiously head wounds tended to bleed. Sadly, the recollection did little to ease the Gascon’s fears as the red liquid refused to stop flowing.

 

“Put your weapons away and I’ll let him go,” Rene bartered with Athos, who was holding his pistol unwaveringly in clear disagreement with the other man’s proposal.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed thickly as he watched the bandit pull Aramis’ head back sharply, further exposing his neck and reinforcing the threat against their fourth. He could feel a trickle of sweat meander down his back, as the stress of the situation grew. The marksman winced as his position became even more uncomfortable, his hands twitching at his sides as if wanting to fight back, but lacking the energy to do so.

 

Licking his dry lips, d’Artagnan prepared to speak, only to stop when he caught Porthos glaring at him. Without uttering a word, his mouth fell closed, responding to the silent command he’d received to stay quiet. He chafed against the larger man’s unspoken demand, his mind beginning to race with questions about what his friends were trying to accomplish. Didn’t they see that this could only end one way, and that meant Aramis’ death? Surely they weren’t so overly confident that they were willing to risk their friend’s life to prove themselves correct?

 

“I grow weary of this.” Athos was speaking again, and his posture was reflected his words, suggesting that he was in fact growing bored of the impasse that they had reached. d’Artagnan’s heart jumped at the way in which Athos’ body seemed to relax, despite the fact that he was still aiming his pistol at the bandit’s head. Once again, he felt the need to speak, to intercede on the marksman’s behalf, before the others did something they would regret.

 

Athos had previously implied that they were a lot alike, and in this moment, d’Artagnan dreaded the statement to be true. He knew himself well enough to recognize that his head was often overruled by passion, leading him to be impulsive and act in ways could make a situation swiftly unravel and result in dire consequences. Athos had often coached him to place his head before his heart, ensuring that his actions would not be governed by emotion, but by reason instead. As d’Artagnan watched events unfold, he was gripped by the horrible fear that his mentor was currently being ruled by his heart, more specifically his pride, and to devastating effect.

 

“Look, Athos, I’m getting’ tired of this, too, but let’s give Rene a last chance to reconsider,” Porthos suggested reasonably, once more causing d’Artagnan’s eyes to grow wide in surprise at his friend’s words. How could they remain so calm, so composed? Didn’t they see the faint line of red that was appearing at Aramis’ throat, suggesting that the bandit had increased the amount of pressure against the blade that rested there? Surely they didn’t think so little of their friend’s life?

 

d’Artagnan’s arm was beginning to tire, and he could feel fine tremors threatening to drop the limb to his side. With a force of will, he pushed new strength into his hold, ensuring his sword didn’t waver from where it held Devore back and out of the way.

 

“Yes, Rene, reconsider,” his comrade encouraged anxiously, the man obviously feeling just as nervous as d’Artagnan, and the Gascon found an odd sort of comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure of the situation.

 

Yanking on Aramis’ hair to emphasize his words, Rene hissed, “Are you daft, Devore? These are Musketeers! Do you honestly think they’ll let us go after what we’ve done?”

 

Athos and Porthos exchanged brief glances, and d’Artagnan fisted his empty hand in frustration at his inability to understand the silent communication that passed between the men. Most times it was a minor annoyance when they spoke without words, and d’Artagnan could only pray he would one day become versed in their nonverbal language. On days like today, his inability to understand only notched his anxiety higher, and he could feel fresh beads of sweat appearing at his temples, rolling irritatingly down the sides of his face.

 

In truth, the Musketeers had no idea what unlawful acts the bandits were responsible for, having been attacked by the men in a tavern where they’d stopped for lunch. Their guilty consciences had only become apparent during the attack, when the group had assumed that the soldiers gracing the establishment were there for reasons other than a hot meal and some wine to wash away the dust from the road. Of course, once the bandits had made their presence known, the four could no longer ignore them, moving immediately to defend themselves from attack. They’d been doing well, too, until Aramis had fallen, and with him, the Musketeers’ advantage.

 

“Well,” Porthos asked casually. “What’s it gonna be?” d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted momentarily to the large man’s face, wondering yet again how he could be so relaxed when the man who was arguably his best friend, was being held hostage. The Gascon’s fingers were now nervously clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword. The seconds passed interminably, and he was certain that he would soon fly apart, the tension in the room seeping into every pore and destroying him from the within.

 

“Come on, man, we don’t have all day for you to make a decision,” Athos added, his tone edged with an impatience that made d’Artagnan’s brows shoot upwards in shock. The statement was intended to push Rene into taking action, and d’Artagnan was horrified that Athos would so uncaringly gamble with Aramis’ life. Biting the inside of his cheek, he managed to keep his lips closed against the words of censure that begged to be voiced.

 

Rene responded to the Musketeers’ goading by incrementally increasing the amount of force on his blade, Aramis groaning lowly in reply to the resulting sting and the wetness that began to trickle slowly down his exposed neck. “You seem awfully determined to watch your friend die today.” The bandit smirked, waiting for a reaction from his foes.

 

Porthos shrugged, his expression suggesting he hadn’t a care in the world. “Alright, Athos, we tried. Now can we just shoot ‘im?”

 

d’Artagnan felt a new jolt of adrenaline surge through his veins, and his gaze skittered to Athos’, praying he would see a look of reason on the man’s face. Instead, he was shocked to find that Athos actually seemed to be considering Porthos’ suggestion, and his vision clouded momentarily with new fear for the marksman.

 

There was no way he could allow this continue, he decided. Clearly, Athos and Porthos were both mad, and not at all in their right minds. d’Artagnan had initially believed these men to be experienced, knowledgeable, and beyond honorable, but the last few minutes had thrown all his beliefs into turmoil. It was obvious that he’d badly misread the men with whom he’d decided to affiliate himself. The realization brought forth a moment of sadness, but he ruthlessly pushed it aside. There would be time enough later to feel sorry for himself, after Aramis had been saved.

 

Determined to speak out on the marksman’s behalf, d’Artagnan met Athos’ gaze as he drew a deep breath, but the look he saw there pulled all the air from his body. Instead of finding an expression of confidence, he saw fear. Athos’ eyes were bright with worry, not for himself but for the brother who was being held with a knife to his throat. Rather than finding calm and a disconnectedness which d’Artagnan had found eerie, he saw determination that Athos would do whatever was necessary to ensure Aramis’ survival. Where d’Artagnan had been confused about what Athos and Porthos had been silently saying, he now found understanding – a deep and complete faith that Athos was begging him to wait; to play along with some unknown plan and to trust that they had not, in fact, abandoned Aramis to his fate.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed against the emotion threatening to choke him, finding the strength to minutely dip his chin in acknowledgement as he held his mentor’s gaze, before shifting his eyes back to the marksman. Aramis still looked uncomfortable, with his head pulled back at an angle that was making breathing and swallowing a challenge. His upper body reflected a contradictory mix of tautness and laxness, as he fought against the desire to fall unconscious. As d’Artagnan watched, the marksman seemed to come to life.

 

Aramis’ movements were almost too quick to follow, and if asked, d’Artagnan would swear the man had been too badly injured to act as fluidly as he had. While one hand came up to push Rene’s knife-wielding hand away, Aramis threw the rest of his body sideways, leaving the bandit fully exposed to Athos’ and Porthos’ pistols. The shots sounded so closely together that to those outside the room, they would have sounded like a single discharge. Rene fell backwards with a soft gasp of surprise, dead before his body struck the floor from the holes in his forehead and heart.

 

Stunned, d’Artagnan watched as both men sprang forward, Porthos kneeling at Aramis’ side while Athos stood protectively over him as if daring anyone else to try and harm his brother. Everything was over in less a second, and d’Artagnan found his arm lowering of its own accord, the relief filling him making him weak and jittery.

 

“d’Artagnan.” Athos’ voice was sharp and it stayed the movement of the Gascon’s arm. Sheepishly, he met the older man’s gaze as he returned to his previous stance, guarding the last remaining bandit. Devore seemed just as shocked as the Gascon and stood frozen in place, his hands held high in supplication as he made no attempt to move.

 

Finding his voice, d’Artagnan asked, “How is Aramis?”

 

The question drew Athos’ attention back to the prostrate man, Porthos now holding his scarf to the marksman’s head. His words were infused with worry that had previously been absent as the large man replied, “His head needs some stitches, and we need to get him somewhere he can lay down and rest.”

 

The report was far less reassuring than d’Artagnan had hoped, but he gamely nodded in understanding as he turned to Athos. “I’ll speak with the owner if you’ll take my place?” The older man dipped his chin in understanding, striding forward to shuffle the last remaining bandit to one side where he bound Devore’s hands with his own belt. With a last hesitant look over his shoulder, d’Artagnan sheathed his sword and left in search of a bed for their injured friend.

* * *

Several hours later had the men seated around a bed, Aramis blinking at them owlishly in the low light, which was still strong enough to make his head throb. The tavern they’d stopped at had been several hours’ ride from Paris, and rather than force the journey on an almost-certainly concussed marksman, they’d made the decision to take a room. The owner had been more than happy to accommodate them, insisting they stay free of charge, given that they’d stopped the bandits from robbing him. It was ironic that the thieves’ guilt had been for their intended plans rather than for something they’d already done.

 

Aramis’ head had been cleaned, stitched and bandaged, and despite his protests, he’d consumed a small amount of his own bitter concoction that had added to his muddled state while reducing his pain. Amused, Porthos sat at his friend’s side, occasionally giving the injured man a gentle push when he began to list sideways and was at risk of falling out of bed.

 

Although the danger had passed, d’Artagnan was having a hard time relaxing, his stiffness a counterpoint to Athos’ and Porthos’ relaxed postures. As though sensing his discomfort, his mentor’s insightful gaze landed on him. “You have questions,” the older man stated, his tone leaving no doubt about the veracity of his words.

 

When the Gascon remained silent, Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance, the latter man speaking next. “It’s alright, d’Artagnan; ask whatever you want. We’ll answer – I promise.”

 

The Gascon considered the offer which was matched by the open expressions on the faces of both men. Aramis seemed more aware, as well, as though understanding the importance of the coming conversation. Still, he hesitated. While his comrades seemed genuine, d’Artagnan felt off-balance after everything that had happened. Plus, he was still new to their ranks, having been a stranger only a few short months prior when he’d arrived in Paris to accuse Athos of his father’s death. Did he really have the right to question their earlier actions?

 

Again, Athos demonstrated his ability to read his protégé’s mind. “d’Artagnan, if you are to be one of us, it’s important that you understand how we think. Soldiers rely upon one another, and it is in the knowledge of each others’ actions where the difference between life and death can be found.” The older man now wore an expression of longing, reflecting his desire to explain.

 

A reassuring nod from Porthos had d’Artagnan voicing the question that he’d been desperate to ask. “You were so calm – both of you. And all I could think was that Aramis was about to die.” He focused on Athos as he went on. “Your comments were almost mocking, as though you were hoping Rene would act. And you, Porthos,” his gaze turned to the larger man. “Aramis is your best friend – how could you take such a risk with his life? There’s no way you could have known how things would turn out.”

 

The Musketeers glanced at one another, a message silently passed from one to the other until it they had reached an accord, all without uttering a single word. After taking a sip of the wine in his glass, Athos began to explain. “You are correct that Porthos and I appeared _unnaturally_ calm. We have experienced these sorts of situations in the past, providing us with knowledge that you didn’t possess. You, however, were quite concerned for Aramis’ welfare – is that correct?”

 

For a moment, d’Artagnan was certain that his mentor was mocking him, and he responded accordingly. “Of course I was bloody well worried! Any man in his right mind would be worried when one of his friends is bleeding and has a knife to his throat.”

 

Athos threw a pleading look in Porthos’ direction, the larger man interpreting that it was now his turn to take up the explanation. “d’Artagnan, Athos means no disrespect. You were genuinely afraid for Aramis, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t have been. In fact, we were countin’ on it.”

 

d’Artagnan’s expression turned incredulous as he held on to the last, unravelling wisps of his self-control. “You see,” Athos continued, “strong emotions such as fear, hatred, even excitement – they can be felt by others and influence their behaviour.”

 

“Devore felt what you were feeling. It layered on top of his own fears and made him easier to control – took him out of the equation, as it were,” Porthos clarified.

 

“That allowed us to concentrate on the more important concern of how to remove Aramis from harm’s way,” Athos concluded.

 

d’Artagnan was surprised when Aramis began to speak, his voice soft in deference to his aching head. “I needed them to stay calm.” He paused for a moment to take a breath, the Gascon’s eyes remaining firmly rooted to his friend’s wan face. “Emotions are powerful, d’Artagnan. When I was struck, I briefly lost all sense of what was happening around me. The first sensation I became aware of was pain – such pain that it threatened to overwhelm me with its intensity. But then I heard Athos’ voice.” The marksman’s gaze shifted momentarily, the soft smile of gratitude that appeared pulling a reciprocal expression from the older man.

 

“His voice, and later Porthos’, anchored me in the moment and allowed me the time I needed to regain my balance. That they stayed calm allowed me to do the same. Their words soothed my fears and reminded me that I had all that was necessary to save myself. All I needed was the time to do so.”

 

Aramis paused then, his eyes slipping closed in response to a flare of pain in his skull, his one hand coming up to cradle his temple as he waited for the throbbing to pass. Porthos’ hand moved to gently squeeze the nape of the marksman’s neck, and as though they’d rehearsed their roles earlier, Athos neatly stepped in to continue. “We all had a part to play, d’Artagnan. Though you were unaware of your role, we needed Devore and Rene to react to your fears. At the same time, Porthos and I were there to keep Aramis from panicking so that he could provide the opportunity we needed to help free him from Rene’s grasp.”

 

“You understand?” Porthos asked as Athos fell silent, and the Gascon found three sets of eyes on him.

 

He took several long seconds to contemplate what he’d just heard, taking a drink of his wine and savouring its warmth as it traced a line down to his stomach. What the men had shared went against everything he thought he’d seen and heard, and yet it was in complete alignment with what he knew of their bond.

 

The same connection that allowed them to speak without words, also allowed them to sense what the others needed, providing it instinctually and without need for conscious thought. It was an incredible and rare thing, and d’Artagnan felt a momentary pang of longing at the fact that he wasn’t as attuned to these men as they seemed to be with one another.

 

“You’re saying that you needed me to be afraid so that my fear would infect the other two, and make it easier for Aramis to get away,” d’Artagnan finally summarized.

 

The marksman’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. “A crude comparison, but accurate nonetheless.”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze dipped downwards to his wine, examining the dark liquid as though it would provide the answers he still sought, the others waiting patiently for him to speak. “But I didn’t know what you had planned. When Aramis moved, I was shocked and almost let Devore get away.”

 

“And here we have the reason for tonight’s conversation,” Athos pointedly announced.

 

“We’ve been soldiering together for years,” Porthos explained. “What you saw today was a mix of experience, and familiarity, and more than a little luck. You can’t possibly expect to know our minds after only a few, short months.”

 

The Gascon’s face fell as Porthos accurately stated the concern that was at the crux of his discomfort. “But, that doesn’t mean that you won’t learn those things in time,” Aramis offered kindly.

 

Hope shone in the young man’s eyes as he saw the promise of a long future at his friends’ sides shining in each of their expressions. “Exactly,” Athos concurred. “Given that we haven’t been able to drive you off thus far, I expect that we’ll have a long future together, and more than enough time for you to be able to anticipate our actions.”

 

With those words, d’Artagnan found himself grinning, the others matching his expression moments later. In his joy, he idly realized the truth of his friends’ words – emotions were infectious and the proof was in each of his treasured brothers’ faces.

 

End.

  

**Thanks for reading!**

**Author's Note:**

> For more information about this challenge and how to participate, as a writer or to vote, please see the forum page on ff.net under Musketeers.


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